


Stuck

by gonfalonier



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Dominance, Dubious Consent, M/M, Nightstick Penetration, Prison, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 10:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2504675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonfalonier/pseuds/gonfalonier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Blake tests his boundaries like a dog tied to a stake in the backyard, snapping after what he wants until he runs out of rope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuck

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I wrote a couple years ago for the TDKR kink meme, a fill for this prompt:
> 
> _I want a jealous!Bane using Blake's police issue nightstick in creative and highly sexual ways to punish Blake for flirting with another guy, before taking Blake hard and showing him who he belongs to._
> 
> Please let me know if there are any other tags I need to add, thank you.

An all-out class war is no place for a lover's quarrel. Then again, these two are far from lovers. Nor is this a case of a slave rising against his master. Like everything that's been happening in Gotham for the past two months, it's complicated.

John Blake is kept on his knees most of the time, in one of the many vacant Blackgate cells, fully clothed in his uniform, which is now growing stained and pilled and pungent. His arms are cuffed behind him and chained to the bars, close enough to make movement impossible. When he eats, it's from a bowl on the ground with the muzzle of a gun pressed against the back of his head. They confiscated his sidearm and his taser when they locked him up, but Bane ordered his men to leave the nightstick holstered to his belt. "He is _impotent_ ," Bane had announced as his men bound John up in the cell. "Let it be a reminder of just how impotent he is." John knows he could do some major damage if he could get his hands on that nightstick; he wouldn't even need a gun. But he can't get his hands on it. Most of the time, he can't even feel his hands.

\--

It only took a week before Bane started paying visits to John's cage to...relax. Sometimes he'd just stand over John and watch him eat. Then John found himself jerking out of sleep to find Bane leaning against the wall, watching him intently. John didn't understand it at first: Was Bane planning his execution? Playing some mind game? In his more delirious moments, he wondered if maybe Bane was psychic, if the secret of his mask was that it let him read minds. But when he discovered the truth, he found it far, far stranger.

Every detail is etched in his mind, still fresh, bloody, unhealed. The way Bane went from looming against the wall across the cell to crouching on the floor in front of him, every step making him seem more impossibly large. The way Bane cupped his chin in one wide hand, turning it to the left and the right, examining John, evaluating him. He'd forced a thumb into John's mouth, running his nail across the bottom row of teeth there, sliding under and over his tongue and pressing down, switching his thumb out for two fingers to shove in methodically, inexorably, until John started coughing and gagging. "Let me see," was all he said before he slid John's nightstick out of its holster and pressing it against John's lips, and John knew is only options were to open his mouth or get his teeth broken. So he opened. He sucked. He let it happen, he wasn't stupid. It seemed to go on forever, the push and pull of the club, the grunts of approval from Bane whenever John's tongue extended as the nightstick was dragged out. The cell was silent; only the obscene sounds of his own mouth and Bane's ugly, appraising noises breaking up the monotony. When it was finally over, John's jaw was aching, but he still whined at the loss. Something sick and dark inside him made him feel empty, like he wanted the nightstick again, or something else, anything to suck on to get more of that attention, more sounds of approval. When he looked up, though, all he got was the sight of Bane rising and turning the nightstick in his hands, his eyes moving from it to John, considering.

"You are a thing that I own," Bane announced at last, with a curious tilt of his head. "Why am I not using you?"

\--

The guard is standing outside John's cage, eating a sandwich. John has no idea where it came from or what's in it, but he wants it. Just a bite. They feed him actual dog food sometimes; when the guys raided the warden's office for information, they found a recipe for nutraloaf, so that's become a staple in John's bowl, accompanied by the guards' snickers as they slop it in front of him. So right now, the soft crunch of the sandwich is making John's mouth water. Just that simple sound is making him feel desperate enough to do something incredibly stupid.

"Hey," he says, to get the guard's attention. "Hey, how's that sandwich?"

The guard snorts out a laugh and answers, without looking at him, "Fuck you, that's how it is."

John licks his lips. "I don't think you get it," he says. "I really _want_ that sandwich." The guard looks over at him finally and John sits up a little straighter, as straight as his chains will allow. He continues, "I'd do _anything_ to get a bite of that sandwich, man."

"I fuckin' bet you would," the guard says smugly before taking another bite. Once he swallows, he gestures at John with his rifle. "Hey, shut the fuck up. You're not supposed to be talking."

But John doesn't stop. He shifts over, just a little bit, just enough that he can make eye contact with the guard. "No, see, what I'm saying," he says, probably a little louder than he needs to, "is that I'd suck your dick for that sandwich."

 

And that's when John sees the shadow coming down the corridor. For as massive as he is, Bane is fleet and nearly silent when he moves. He doesn't even need to say a word to let the guard know it's time for him to take a break. On his way out, the guard unlocks the door and mutters to John, "You're in for it now."

Bane is wordless as he enters the cage and looms over John. The attention is electrifying. Since getting locks up, Bane's brutal hand is the only touch John's been afforded, and now he's come to crave it. He didn't even mean to provoke Bane today. He just got lucky.

"John," Bane says to tug his leash and get his full attention. John looks up to see Bane's forehead furrow between the straps of the mask. "Are my men not feeding you?" 

Bane only comes in to see him about twice a week, and when he does, his mind is hardly on John's comfort.

"Dog food," John answers bitterly. He's not expecting sympathy, but he sees no reason to lie. "Or worse."

Bane's laugh is modulated through his mask and sounds like a series of coughs. "Very good," he says. "'Or worse.' Very good, John. We haven't beaten that spark out of you yet."

And then Bane is leaning over John, unlocking the chains that keep him attached to the bars. Bane's smell is intense and bodily, but not sharp or fetid like the vagrants John is used to processing. ( _Was_ used to, anyway, back when law still held sway in Gotham.) Bane smells like humanity stripped of civilization.

Once John is free of the bars, Bane knocks him easily onto his side and hunkers down over him. Without a word, supremely confident John won't fight back, he unlocks the cuffs behind John's back. John doesn't even try to struggle. There's no point: Bane is a human pillar, and even if John got in a solid blow it would make as much of an impact as a housefly. Bane maneuvers John's numb arms until they're in front of him so he can re-cuff him. He gives John a mockery of an encouraging pat on the cheek and says lightly, "Can't be too careful." With a flick of his wrist, he pulls the nightstick from the holster at John's hip.

"So," Bane begins, his mask giving his voice a deceptively good-natured air, "my men are feeding you, giving you water. You're getting sunlight," he points with a nightstick to a small barred window high on the opposite wall of the cell, up near the ceiling. "You're restless. I understand." He touches the nightstick to John's jaw to turn his head to one side, then the other, then lays it horizontally across John's lips. "Hold this."

Obediently, John opens his mouth wide to hold the club with his teeth. "Clearly," Bane continues, "I'm not giving you enough attention." He drops his hands to John's fly and opens it up, keeping an eye on John, who also refuses to look away. This isn't the first time they've done this dance, and John's pretty sure it's what they'll be doing when he dies, and he's done screaming, done struggling. He knows it won't make any difference.

Once John's fly is unzipped, Bane stands up, takes the nightstick back from John's mouth, and, with one push of his foot against John's ribcage, rolls him over onto his front. The only way John can keep his hands from being crushed is to immediately get in position, forcing himself up on his forearms and tucking his knees under himself. When he first took this position in this cell, he felt like a cowering child. Now he cringes as his knees trap his half-hard dick against his body.

Getting up on his knees has pulled his uniform pants halfway down his ass, and Bane does the rest with the nightstick. John can feel the blunt end brushing against him. Using the club, Bane pushes John up a little higher on his knees, forcing his ass, still covered by filthy underwear, up further on display. John hears Bane say one word -- "Good." -- before he feels the club come down on him, square on his ass. It's a juddering smack that forces John forward and makes him grunt out an undignified noise. Apparently pleased with the result of the first blow, Bane starts up a rhythm, knocking John's ass with the nightstick to the tune of a dozen hellish bruises. By the time he takes a break, John's body is on fire with pain, the pulses radiating down his thighs, up his spine, and bringing a fresh, shameful ache to his erection.

He can hear Bane moving, and he follows the steps in his mind. Bane moves from behind him, from the center of the cell, to the back left corner where John's food and water bowls are kept. The slosh and plastic scraping tells him the water bowl is being dragged across the floor. He flinches when Bane speaks again and closes his eyes to try to shut out the faux-sympathy in his inhuman voice. "John, I know you were an orphan. And I know that orphans often crave attention of any sort. They learn to manipulate to get the things they want." When the rounded end of the nightstick slides down the small of his back, John can feel it's barely damp with water. It pushes his underwear down, down, until the tip of the club rests right against his hole. The silence in the cell stretches out until it's unbearable.

John holds out for as long he can before he finally grinds out one word through his teeth: "Don't."

As if he's been waiting to hear that one word, Bane presses forward, driving the first inch of the nightstick in. It's not quite as thick around as Bane's dick, but it's solid, relentless, nearly two feet long. Using it requires barely any effort on Bane's part; it's got a handle at the other end that's almost too convenient, as if that's what it was put there for. John tries to muffle his howl of pain behind his teeth, but it's too much scream to keep in. He opens his mouth and groans, low and guttural, shaking his head as if that's going to make it stop.

"I plan on keeping you after our work is done here in Gotham," Bane says as he inches the baton in a little further. The pace is as torturous as the stretch. "An orphan no more. You'll have an entire army as your family, John." Another push, another cry of pain from John that goes unheeded. "Please don't give me a reason to kill you."

Without warning, Bane pulls the club out completely, leaving John's hole open and needy. He whines -- a sound choked with pain and heat -- which pulls another cold laugh from Bane. John can hear the baton being dipped in the water again, and he braces himself as Bane starts working the blunt end back inside him. It goes in deeper this time, but just as slowly, Bane obviously taking great pleasure in watching John's hole swallow up the weapon. He fucks the club in and out, and the polished wood catches on the dry, clenching rim of John's hole. John's past the point of crying out, and instead he just hitches in short, sharp gasps of breath with every movement of the nightstick inside of him.

"I see how quiet you can be," Bane says as he slowly twists the baton, "when you get what you want."

John tries to tell himself he doesn't want this, but his body is betraying him. With just one shift of his hips, the club is nailing his prostate with every stroke. He hisses in pleasure every time, unable to help himself. Through his mask, Bane makes a sickeningly pleased sound and announces, "There it is."

John can hear Bane moving behind him, and then the sole of one heavy boot settles on his lower back, holding him in place. "Stay." Bane slides the club in deep, deeper than John has ever taken anything, and it rips a howl from John's throat. He breathes in and tries to swallow the whimpers that want to escape, but some still slip out. Bane doesn't even acknowledge his scream. Instead, he just says, "I'm going to make this fast now, John. Unfortunately, I can't spend the entire day with you. I have work to do."

The thrusts come quick after that. Each one slides over John's prostate, forcing pleasure all through his body. His body aches for climax as much as for relief from the pounding nightstick. His mind is a confused jungle of despair for his fallen city, shame at his own cowardice and the way he's stopped even trying to escape his fate, and a hot, greedy lust for this beast of a man who seems to think of him as property.

John feels a familiar ringing in his ears, and even though he _wants_ this, he spits out the word "no" again and again. "No, no, _no_." Bane's boot grinds down harder against his back as he answers with a simple, "Yes," and angles the baton up and in. The move milks the orgasm right out of John. He cries out a string of swears as his balls draw up tight and cock shoots hard against his uniform, a few strings of semen dripping down onto the concrete floor.

For a long moment, there's nothing but heavy silence broken only by John's labored breathing as he comes down. Bane's lifted his boot from John's back and now he's slowly starting to work the nightstick out of John's ass. Involuntarily, John hisses and whines until it's completely withdrawn. He flinches when he feels Bane prod the nightstick against his balls as if testing to see if they're completely empty. Once Bane is satisfied, John hears him splash the nightstick back in the water, and then Bane is tugging him up to a sitting position so his heals dig into his bruised ass.

When Bane reaches around to uncuff John and recuff his hands behind his back, it almost feels tender.

Bane stands and uses the nightstick to bang on the bars of the cell and call the guard back in. John wonders how much the guard heard. He'll never know: Bane killed the last man who breathed a word about their meetings in this cage.

"Dress him," Bane says to the guard, "and change his water." He drops the nightstick on the ground next to John. On his way out of the cell, he adds casually, "The next man who tries to give him dog food. Shoot him in the head."

As John lets the guard handle him and chain him back up, he wonders vaguely what's for lunch tomorrow.


End file.
